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Strong Drink Is Not for Men Alone

To whet the appetite Deviled eggs and a blue cheese and bacon dip are appetizers at Blue Smoke. Have the bourbon your way.Credit
Evan Sung for The New York Times

IT’S been going on for years, actually. When I was in college and went out with my oversize football player boyfriend, we’d order drinks, and every time I’d be served the frosty piña colada with the pink paper umbrella that he’d ordered, and he’d be served the tough-guy Scotch-rocks that was mine.

Fast forward, lo these centuries later, and we are, I am told, in the midst of a cocktail revolution. Forget the dripping daiquiri blenders perched on every bar that were part of the soundtrack of drinking in the 1970’s. Now the poor bartenders are watching their order slips pile up while muddling mint leaves in mortars with pestles, praying for someone to cave in and order a Bud. Entire menus are devoted to drinks made up of so many components they seem the liquid equivalent of recipes from “The Silver Palate Cookbook”: leave three ingredients out of most of them, and they’d be just as good.

Though I still drink Scotch periodically, at some point I switched to Maker’s Mark bourbon. These days, I order it in a tall glass to ensure that the ratio of booze to soda gives me a fighting chance of getting to the appetizer without falling out of my chair. But among some male bartenders, I’ve noticed more than a tad of residual resistance to the notion that the female of the species can drink hard liquor unadorned by grenadine or chunks of oxidizing pineapple.

A few weeks ago I settled down at the bar at Lombardi’s for the inevitable table wait for one of those sublime pizzas and ordered my drink. My husband ordered the same thing. I watched as the bartender filled two tall glasses with ice. He poured bourbon into the first glass, a healthy amount, then squirted some soda on top. In the second glass he poured the bourbon and soda simultaneously, rendering it the color of a weak ginger ale. Guess which one was mine?

I handed it back. “Could you put some more bourbon in this, please?” I asked, struggling to remain polite. Struggling back, he did just that.

A few weeks earlier, I had eaten at Blue Smoke, the barbecue restaurant that serves an impressive list of bourbons and an even more impressive selection of appetizers that complement them, deviled eggs, and the creamy blue cheese and bacon dip with house-made potato chips being just two of them. Seated at a table, I was a gender-blind customer as far as the bartender was concerned. But when the tray of drinks arrived, I realized that two men at the table had ordered the same as I had, Maker’s Mark in a tall glass with soda. The waiter was male, and sure enough, the drink lightest in color was served to me.

I summoned a manager and pointed out the discrepancy. He was deeply apologetic, the drink was fixed and a good time was had by all. But it made me start paying attention. Obviously, a restaurant has a great stake in keeping you drinking. If you’re overwhelmed too quickly, there goes the bill. I get it. But too weak a drink, and the dinner doesn’t ignite. No one’s getting into the spirit, coveting that great bottle of wine or that aromatic yet severely overpriced steak for two that looks so great at the next table. You’re too busy trying to wave down a waiter to get a second drink because the first one didn’t take.

When I saw my drinks being made by women, however, the difference was tangible. At Prune, the East Village restaurant owned by Gabrielle Hamilton, the staff is predominantly female. I was served a glass of bourbon and ice, three-quarters full, with a small bottle of club soda on the side so I could decide for myself how much I wanted. On that particular night, that drink lasted straight through to the entree. But no worries. We still ordered wine. The bill was safe.

At La Mirabelle, the cozy French bistro on West 86th at Columbus Avenue, which is a throwback to the Old World places that used to fill the West 40’s and 50’s like À la Fourchette and La Grillade, I always make it a point to sit in Danielle Ruperti’s station. She has been a waitress there for decades, she painted all the pictures on the walls, and if you get her on the right night she will come to your table and sing a knockout rendition of “La Vie en Rose.” And when this girl pours a drink, life is rosy, indeed.

So unite, women of New York! To heck with stingy men, crème de cassis and pink umbrellas, most of all! Salud!